#unique sentiment

[bingpolly]

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[poliodeuces]

stairway to heaven

—

edit: i don't know if it's just from my phone, or it's tumblr compression, but this looks unfortunately so so blurry. better quality on my twitter 💥

[gingerswagfreckles]

Like. I really wish we could get more information about what's actually happening in Iran rn. I have a sneaking suspicion that the bomb strikes have hit way more civilian infrastructure and killed way more people than we want to think about and I also have a sneaking suspicion that any anti-regime sentiment that was awakening on the first night is quickly being squashed by the extent of the damage and the fear of having one's house or family randomly blown up. But I can't know for sure. I wish the Iranian internet would come back on. Right now it's just two different governments trying to control the narrative with propaganda.

[mercurialmalcontent]

I am firmly convinced that there would be far fewer people bitching about the use of 'nonbinary' and 'transgender' in fantasy fiction if there wasn't a ton of very judgmental baggage around both words.

In recent years I've noticed (in myself and others) a growing tendency toward an automatic jerk-away-and-cringe reaction when 'nonbinary' and 'transgender' crop up unexpectedly in fiction. Sometimes that reaction is from learning to expect pain to follow, and sometimes it's from unexamined discomfort and biases around the topic of trans and nonbinary people, but either way, I'm real damn sick of people bitching about it like it's just some sort of aesthetic choice that ~ruins their immersion~.

There's immense value in using the right words for things instead of prettying them up to be more palatable. It's unapologetic and unafraid. Without a damn good reason to do otherwise (like loadbearing worldbuilding that's important thematically and doesn't cover up what is actually meant), that's all I can see demands for 'immersive' terms as: demands to put these ideas at a comfortable, ignorable, plausibly deniable distance.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[dykedvonte]

omg hi if it wouldn't be a bother i'd love if you could expand on your perspective on curly's character representing how patriarchy, rape culture, etc, negatively effect men?

I think Curly is there to represent the idealic person for the scenerior but in a lot of wrong place wrong time and a sort of deconstruction.

Curly’s enabling is never just the “He wouldn’t do that, he’s my friend, I know him.” type. Yes, he is not nearly as concerned as he should be with Jimmy’s behavior but he’s not completely blind to how he can be and is aware that Jimmy is just a guy who had it rough. He clearly is very keen on keeping Jimmy calm for the trip, very accommodating to all of them in a way that he honestly should be but can be used to explain away favoritism. If everyone can get away with a little something than it can then be extended to Jimmy. A big problem of Curly’s is he extends to much curtesy to everyone which a lot of people ignore to just focus on Jimmy and his relationship.

In specifics of rape culture, he’s the sad truth of people don’t immediately cut off the abuser. There is a lot of this in irl cases that can range from the inability to open the selfish not wanting to but here it’s because his relationship with the abuser is also not healthy/abusive, falling into the former with how confined they are despite how it can be seen as bros protecting bros due to how underplayed emotionally unhealthy relationships between men can be. His relationship with Jimmy is not just one of wanting to protect him from himself but keeping him docile, safe to bring around others. There is a tension in almost all of their private scenes where Curly is trying hard to make sure his words are understood and don’t set him off. It’s subtle but real and an aspect of RC that gets overlooked when it’s comes to men coming forward themselves or on behalf of others. The way they can’t directly oppose each other because their safety may be the least of their concerns. They know men and in this case he knows this man won’t target him but the others, especially Anya, case point: not wanting her to tell Jimmy alone.

There is an inherent intimidation that can also happen in male spaces we see Jimmy use due to the specific social condemnation effect he has with Curly. Even if he is a bad friend to Curly, he is a dear friend and a lot of apprehension with men on the side of Curly in RC comes from that social anxiety, that fear and the very real idea you or the person you were trying to help will be further retaliated against/isolated just like we see happen to an extreme in canon. We don’t know how much Curly and Jimmy interacted between the party and the crash. We can assume they didn’t at all or perhaps went on as normal, but we know something changed after the conversation with Anya both at night and in the cockpit.

I think the card being in the locker shows he was gonna make the complaint, taking her ID to get her numbers for the report as it isn’t there before hand. With the recent reblog of how complaints have to be filed, he was likely storing it, possibly it was close to a time he could send something if it was even possible. Though everything was inevitably too late.

Curly is the ideal man on paper in terms of a patriarchal system. In shape, handsome, the top of the pecking order, competent or otherwise on top of his perineal duties. The issue is he is deeply unhappy just as someone like Jimmy who reflects all the negatives. This should be what he wants but he’s realized it’s unfulfilling, boring and he’s given up too much of himself to get up a ladder he doesn’t even remember why he climbed in the first place. He is not keen on keeping that status, I am a contrarian in thinking he honestly didn’t care if the report when on his record, more so he was in shock it happened at all. Didn’t want to believe his friend actually did it and he of all people would have to be the one to turn him in for it. It’s selfish and it’s a personal thought but it’s real. It’s denial because even if you know it’s for justices sake, you grieve the friendship you had and the perceptions that were shattered. It’s not supposed to sound good or noble or kind because it isn’t, it’s human.

All together I think Curly represents a big way these systems negatively affect the men that everyone assume benefits. He’s unhappy with the power he has because it ties him to responsibilities that bring him no fulfillment, he also gets retaliated against by Jimmy because he was never immune and in a way was aware of it. He’s unequipped and nervous to handle such a delicate situation because it isn’t protocol, there’s no protocol. He followed the rules of all the concepts mentioned, trying to do the right and normal thing and it either left him with nothing to show for it or damned him and others in the end.

This is a shorter post than I would write but I just feel like I’ve tackled these aspects so much individually or in lumped together posts that unless it’s something specific I will just create run on tangents.

[superm4ks]

https://www.tumblr.com/rb19/766604765555736576/kevin-magnussen-on-max-verstappens-performance-in?source=share

Why is this season literally exposing the haasbands for verstappen agenda

Bby lysm ty for sending me this KEVINNN 😭 but 'this season' .. 1st of all several FBI investigations needed into Hulkenberg as a person period but especially his relationship wid Max his little pancake wid the tight jeans that is on the limit on track and at the club … ((😐😐 . Literally why did he say that)) I need his ass under the microscope maxiel levels of crimes been happening for years and KMag is literally Kevin Magnussen Detroit GP winner he wants violence he wants it committed NOW NO rulebook no gods no kings that’s IMSA bred USA Motorsport ptsd right there. Obvi he wud endorse Max’s antics in Mexico obvi he likes how Max hustles for position even while leading the league. It is ‘awesome’. It just is. U can tell Kevin’s out of a seat too because mask fully off. FIA in deep distress which makes him happy, tracks are ass. Also give Max a gun

[neil-neil-orange-peel]

A word on Rik Mayall today...

I recently rewatched the 1984 Wogan interview where Rik does a set as Rick and then an interview as himself. I've always loved the contrast between the oblivious vulnerability we're shown in Rick and the nervous, unguarded energy we glimpse in Rik. I must have watched the video so many times, but it'd been a while since my last viewing, I must admit.

There is something beautiful and raw about Rik and his comedy, especially when looking back at his earlier performances - where he hadn't quite figured out who he wanted to be to the world yet. The way he flits between character and self fascinates me; you can see the change in his face, his posture, his confidence.

Here we behold a man who was much more comfortable behind a persona. These personas let him release a pure, unadulterated, yet still of course hilarious madness that no one else has ever replicated since. That was his gift.

And so, with all this in mind, I took a moment to watch Rik in his element: his eyes wide and glinting, his face grinning and bright, his body abuzz with the performance, his words spiralling wild and loud. That funny man. That pan-global phenomenon.

I found myself laughing, and then I found myself crying; and these two reactions cannot be separated. It was an inarticulable outpouring - because Rik is dead, because time has marched on, because I am no longer 17 years old and freshly in love with him, because things can never be quite as they were ever again. Yet, in spite of all that, this glowing, glorious imprint of Rik remains here, immortalised through the camera.

There he was: Rik Mayall, aged 26, still making me laugh 40 years down the line.

I'd like to say something to Rik, but I can't, so this will have to suffice:

Rest easy, Rik, you darling, funny man. Thank you for the wonder you filled me with when I first found you. It is still within me; it still flickers. Thank you for your fire. Thank you for your madness. Thank you for all the big and small things I want to list but can't capture coherently.

You've been gone ten years now, and that is unspeakably unfair. I am furious on your behalf, believe you me, as I have it on good authority a great many other people are too. I never even met you, and you changed my life. I know that sounds silly, but it is no exaggeration. If such things as souls exist, you made mine full. You made mine laugh.

Thank you, Rik. You utter bastard. I won't ever forget what you've done for me. I really bloody mean that.

I'm thinking of you today.

[vivi-scera]

kawoshin really just a nothing burger ship but i'll still read the fic even though my heart won't be in it

[pummelingbat]

i like seeing more Armand girlies getting into the books bc i feel like we really are the winners in that regards. its such a "holy shit two cakes" scenario. what do you mean i get TWO perfect freaks....?

[divinekangaroo]

Whilst waiting for my drawing program books to arrive, a couple of days ago I drew this shitty 3-minute artline scribble of my kids cuddling on the sofa.

Today I found out my son took it to his school to show off to all his friends and his teachers because he loved it so much, and I’m like:

…are you proud of me son?

*him gone bashful* yeahhhhhhhhh

[rolandkaros]

dont say it enough but tennisblr i love u

[labelma]

Is Brandon Sanderson… a Thrawn fan 👀

[ridiasfangirlings]

Hii! What do you think Saruhiko would name his children? Since you've been receiving a couple of asks where he has a daughter/son

I imagine Fushimi would give his kids very normal, uninteresting names. Considering how much he hates his own name and how relatives would call him ‘the one with the funny name’ because of the ‘monkey’ character in Saruhiko I think Fushimi would be very determined to give his kid like the most normal boring name possible. I think he wouldn’t want his kid to grow to hate their name the way he did his so he’s like very aware of names that can be easily turned into taunts and he pays careful attention to the spelling so that he doesn’t use any kind of specific kanji that would make his kid stand out. If asked he would probably say he didn’t think that hard about the name (and somehow I can see Fushimi as the type of parent whose kid is just called ‘baby’ for like a week because picking out a name is such a pain) but I could see him kinda low key picking one that he has attachment to. I feel like he would unexpectedly go for more ‘positive’ names, with meanings like ‘good luck’ or ‘sunshine,’ though he claims that was a total coincidence and who would want to give his kid such a sappy name. In truth though Fushimi does want his kid to have a name that will hopefully show they were wanted and cared for, and that they can be happy that he gave it to them.

[landonor]

100 stickers for 100 races🫶

[tsunderful]

"I love the Persona series."

"Oh except for all the anime bullshit, I hope the next game has an entirely adult cast."